


we know who our enemies are (we know)

by TolkienGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Deal with a Devil, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: s03e10 Dream a Little Dream, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Happy Birthday Dean sorry this fic is so sad, POV Second Person, Season/Series 03, title from Siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Funny thing is—funny—you don’t want to go to hell. Never did, of course, except for the single moment that mattered. Yes, you’ll do it. Yes, you’ll die for him. In a way, you want him to suffer, but only for you to see. You want him to suffer the abrasion of your protection: it means you’ll always be there for him. Death can’t take that away. In hell, you’ll still be here, because Sam will carry the pain of you.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	we know who our enemies are (we know)

Sam says as much with a look as he does with a lecture. That, at least, has not changed.

_Dean, you’re drinking too much. Dean, that’s not a vegetable. Dean, you have three months left. Dean, for the love of—_

_Dean, I’m sorry._

_Dean, I can’t do this._

_Dean, you’re deflecting._

_Deflecting_ is one of Sam’s new favorite words.

As far as you’re concerned, he’s being unintentionally half-assed about the whole thing. Stop deflecting? Might as well let you deflect all the way, become something so shielded from humanity that death can’t touch you. In the time-loop, you were living and dying forever, not knowing what it all meant. If Sam could let you deflect, maybe he’d have let you stay there.

But you wouldn’t want that for Sam. All that agony, over and over, yourchoiceyourchoicenochoice. You won’t trap Sam in eternal Tuesday, and you won’t be the brother who dies more than once.

Just once is enough, when Sam never asked for what you knew you had to do.

Funny thing is— _funny—_ you don’t want to go to hell. Never did, of course, except for the single moment that mattered. Yes, you’ll do it. Yes, you’ll die for him. In a way, you want him to suffer, but only for you to see. You want him to suffer the abrasion of your protection: it means you’ll always be there for him. Death can’t take that away. In hell, you’ll still be here, because Sam will carry the pain of you.

It’s the only thing that keeps you going, in the dark.

Hell’s already ruined a lot of things, and you’re not even there yet. You used to prick your finger on the blade beneath your pillow, and think about the question of death. Once you said to Sam, joking, that you only think for one minute a day, right before you sleep. You said it was pornographic. He huffed and rolled his eyes and took the exit out of that conversation.

You know how to give Sam an exit from the destination he’s always aiming for: understanding you.

You know _how_ , and you know _Sam_ , and those together were enough to drive you to a crossroads, enough to dig you a grave little larger than your hand.

Those together are all you know. Sam, and how to save him.

Sam knows everything else.

Sam’s a genius, practically, and you raised him, but you couldn’t create that. Nothing you have made, nothing that you are, belongs entirely to you. You told yourself in a dream that you cannot claim original thoughts. Sam and Dad were the ones who wrote maps: you just read them.

You read them and remember the roads.

You don’t want to go to hell but you can’t say it. Ruby has no empathy in her eyes: it’s not in her nature. You don’t know when you started to look for empathy. You don’t know when you ever trusted your enemies to tell the truth. You’re afraid, and the knife under the pillow is just an edge, now: a killing thing in a desperately living season.

Every hunt you take could be your last. You have to choose between time and certainty. If a ghost tears your heart out, you won’t have to wonder about the way the hellhounds will.

_Then again, maybe the deal keeps you alive._

You don’t ask Ruby if every second of this year belongs to you.

You don’t ask Ruby if every second of this year belongs to Sam.

You keep him safe. It’s what you know.

_Dean, you have three weeks left._

_Dean, I—_

The streetlights hissing with moths, lava soap grinding out blood from creases of skin and denim, the purr of the engine between mile markers.

The way your life means nothing.

These, at least, have not changed.


End file.
